


half-past eight

by asexuelf



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Child Abuse, Cults, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Running Away, Sal Fisher is a Sweetheart, Travis Joins The Sally Face Gang, kenneth phelps is evil whats new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26374330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/asexuelf
Summary: Travis hides in Nockfell High to avoid going home. A certain paranormal investigator finds him in the bathroom (again).
Relationships: Sal Fisher & Travis Phelps, Sal Fisher/Travis Phelps
Comments: 4
Kudos: 119





	half-past eight

**Author's Note:**

> tada~! a little something quick while i finish up a sequel to a fic i wrote over a year ago now akdjsjdjskf so stay tuned for more
> 
> warnings for child abuse, child neglect, trauma, paranoia, mentioned human experimentation, mentioned nonconsensual surgery, mentioned shoplifting, aaaand... lots of cursing. foul-mouthed travis, rise.
> 
> hope you enjoy!

It's Friday, the sun is hanging low in a darkening sky, and it's moments from Travis' curfew. The seconds pass like concrete through dirt, made slow and uneven in his terror.

He isn't at home. He's in the boys bathroom at Nockfell High and he's not going to make curfew.

He's sitting behind the trash can by the sinks, ignoring his hungry stomach and hard-beating heart because it's better to. It doesn't matter what kind of pain his body is in - be it hunger or fear - because it's better when it doesn't matter. It's better when he's empty.

Travis closes his eyes and tucks his nose back between his knees. The cold of the tile floor leeches into his shorts, so bright against his skin that even pulling his shirt over his knees doesn't help chase away the chill.

Still, it's better. It doesn't matter, because it's a thousand times better than being in that dreadful house he's forced to call home.

That's not a home. Even he knows that. Travis rubs his face, careless of his bruised eye and his aching ribs (which protest with every movement). Things like this - this _pain_ \- don't happen in a home.

Hitting, _maybe,_ like Father used to keep himself satisfied with… Travis sees T.V. He knows he's not special. Not _okay,_ but not special either - at least, not for that. Not for cruel words and crueler expectations, or for the cruel, heavy fists which write their name on his skin.

No, that he could handle. He _did_ handle it. He tells himself that over and over, like running water over a stone until it's smooth.

 _I can handle a shitty father,_ he thinks firmly. _But not this. This is too fucked up for words._

And it's sure as Hell too fucked up for him to ever go back to that place again. The house, the ministry... If he's on the run, even the 7-11 is too dangerous.

Dogma has eyes all over this town. He might be watching Travis right now.

Travis pulls his knees tighter to his chest and cries. Really, truly cries. The wailing echoes painfully through the small bathroom, ricocheting off the sinks and stalls to cry back at him. So many voices made from one sob… It's a deeply lonely sound.

 _I'll always be alone,_ Travis thinks miserably. He nearly chokes on the next sob, swallowing hard to save himself from hearing it again. _No one will ever save me. I'll die in that house. I'll bleed out beneath that church and God won't do a fucking thing-_

The bathroom door opens.

No one should be here. It's dark out by now, starry-skied and chilly-aired with the growing autumn. There must be a fine symphony of crickets and cicadas outside, the only things to break the careful quiet that night always brings.

The bathroom door closes loudly, the way all heavy school doors seem to, and for a moment, Travis thinks he's alone again. He holds his breath, listening closely for a janitor's shoe stomping across the floor, waiting anxiously for a light in the dark to suddenly shine in his direction, catching him like a windshield catches a doe. Forgotten in his panic, his tears roll silently down his face.

No such light comes. There's a strange rustling, like plastic quietly clanking around, and then a very faint green glow shines near the door, not so much chasing the dark away as joining it.

Travis stays hidden behind the trash can. When the glow starts growing, shaking as if it were lumbering towards him, he tries to make himself even smaller. The room is so suddenly _large_ for the tight walls that seem to be closing in, making every sound - especially the silence - all the louder.

A faint beeping ticks in time to the green glows off-rhythm pulsing. His own breath, his own heartbeat, are so terrifyingly loud in the tense air. He can only hope his fear is hidden behind the sounds of shoes on tile. They're not boots like janitors wear, Travis can tell - they're sneakers, squeaky from overuse and joined by the tap-slap-drag of too-long shoelaces.

Wait. He knows the sound of those shoes.

He peeks out from behind the tall black trash can to check… and it is!

“Sally Face?”

“Ack!”

The green glow shakes violently as Sal waffles with the strange thing in his hands. When he finally catches it, the eerie light settles into stark lines across the pink and white of his mask; the round shapes of his mask are made severe and sharp against the darkness otherwise surrounding them.

“Travis?” His voice is muffled behind the mask, but still too loud for the lonesome dark of the room. Still, Travis' shoulders relax at the sound. “What the heck, man! Don’t scare a guy like that.”

“Says the creep with the Doomsday machine.”

Sal looks down at the glowing green… instrument? invention? in thought. “Heh. Is it better or worse if I tell you it’s for hunting ghosts?"

In the faint green light, the shadows of Sal’s mask grow larger, longer. Deeper.

Travis can’t see his eyes. Only deep pools of black. Only that mannequin's face, made human only by the boy behind it.

He gulps. Whether he believes in spirits or not, he hears his voice wavering as he snaps, “Ghosts? Don’t fuck with me, Sally Face!”

“Don’t worry, heh. Ghosts are usually friendly. Unlike some other people I know.”

That doesn’t make him feel any better. Already, the creeping shadows flickering in Sal's light are too much like hands and the static which clings to the corner of his vision too much like distant eyes. Friend or foe, Travis isn’t terribly interested in having company with the dead.

With Sal, though… That’s still up for debate.

“What are you doing here?” Sal’s voice is so gentle. He’s always so gentle when they talk nowadays, even when Travis doesn't deserve it. “It’s really late. Did you miss the bus?”

Travis blushes, suddenly grateful for the darkness. That’s a silly thought and he knows it; no matter what he’s done, no matter how he behaves, Sal isn’t going to be ashamed or disgusted. Hiding from Sal is pointless, because, unlike other people, Sal won’t point and laugh when he sees weakness. All Sal wants is for him to try.

Even when he can’t be honest with himself, he knows he can be honest with Sal. “No,” he sighs. “Well, not on accident… I just-”

But how does he even begin to explain? Sal called Father ‘an intense man’. That doesn’t cover as much as a freckle on his back, let alone the full man. Kenneth Phelps is… He's a lot of things. Among them, he’s a _monster_.

_And I can’t live with a monster breathing down my neck anymore. Not after what happened._

Sal's shoulders relax in something too close to pity for Travis' liking. “It’s okay," he says. "You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to!” He has to bite back a growling shout at the frustration of it. “I just… I don’t know. It’s all so hard to explain.”

Sal stares for a moment through the shadows of his mask, eerily silent. Finally, just when Travis is feeling the need to bolt, Sal steps forward - only to sit so casually close beside him on the floor. Travis can feel his skin when they brush against each other, somehow colder than the tile beneath them.

With his lip bitten between his teeth, he fights down a dozen different emotions. He does not lean into Sal’s touch.

“Did your dad kick you out?”

He sighs through his nose, almost in relief. The green glow on Sal’s black sweater gives him a convenient place to look at, away from the shame, from the confusion.

“No," Travis mutters. "It’s actually past my curfew, so… he’s probably pissed I’m not at home.”

The thought scares him enough to make his lip start wobbling again. He wants to be embarrassed, but why bother? Sal has already seen him at his lowest. Why not go lower?

Still, he can’t make himself meet Sal’s eyes.

“I can’t go home again,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

A silence grows between them, but not for shame or anything similarly shaped. Sal is waiting patiently while Travis sobs into the striped shirt still tucked over his knees. Sal’s waiting for him to keep talking, but there’s nothing left to say.

He’s never going back. Never.

“Okay.” His voice is still so goddamned gentle. Travis doesn't deserve it. “You can stay with me until we get you, um, reverse-disowned. Whatever that’s called.”

And he _definitely_ doesn’t deserve that. “No fucking way!” Snot clogs his nose and his throat already hurts from crying. He can hear it in his voice - and the promise of more in the way his voice breaks. “I’d have no way to pay you-”

“Then don’t pay me! Human life has no price, Travis."

"Maybe, but it's sure fucking expensive. You can't just take me in like a stray turtle or something. Living costs money."

"...We’ll figure that out if it ever becomes important.”

“It _is_ important.”

Sal shrugs. The green light in his lap - _is that a fucking GearBoy?_ \- flickers delicately. “Maybe. I guess my dad would have a hard time feeding us both, you're right. I'll admit that. But it's not a problem; we can just ‘lift your groceries. I do it all the time for snacks."

It takes Travis a moment to understand what he means. “Wait- You _steal_ shit? What the fuck?”

“You harass people, bully and beat them, but _shoplifting_ is where you draw the line?" His pigtails sway when he shakes his head. "You’re a complicated guy, Travis. I can do the stealing if you don’t want to. Whatever you want- No, whatever you _need_ , I’ll make it happen. Your comfort, your safety: that's what matters."

It’s almost enough to send Travis back into hysterics. It rises up like bile, terrifying and true. “Why? Why are you being so damn nice to me?”

“Because you’re my friend now, Travis." Another shrug. "And even if you weren’t, no one deserves to be hurt. If I can help, I want to.”

“But, what do you get out of it? What do you gain?”

“Um… Another ghost-hunting buddy?” Sal gives a quiet, shy laugh. It's more a sadness than amusement. “Is it not enough that I get to help you? Is it not enough that I just want to do that?”

Travis snorts, disbelieving. Then again, this is Sally Face he’s talking to. _Sal Fisher_. The guy that’s caught him crying in the bathroom _twice_ and has been nothing but kind both times. Sal’s the guy that never tattled, that never fought back except to snark… The guy that stood his ground even while he let himself be walked over like a bearskin rug. The idiot that let Travis hurt him because he saw his pain and wanted to _help_.

“I won’t use you,” Travis whispers. His face grows hot. “You deserve better than that.”

“Wow… Didn’t think I’d hear you saying that.”

Travis sighs. He's right, but it still hurts. Travis is an asshole. The guilt that claws at him is only marginally better than the fear.

“Sorry, heh. I mean… Good, right? I don’t want to be used, Travis. I want to _help_. I want to be leaned on when you need to lean."

 _Help._ What a novel concept. All this time alone, all this suffering under his father’s hands… No one cares when he shows up to school bruised. No one cares when he scarfs down his lunch like a starved dog, when he almost throws up every pizza day because his neglected stomach can’t handle the grease.

No one cares about Travis Phelps.

The closest thing to _help_ Travis has ever experienced was when Father ordered the robed man to hold him down so they could cut him better. So Travis would live screaming instead of die.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. Somehow, the wounds are gone, sealed up and scarred. Still, the pain goes beyond skin. The pain will always follow him. He’ll live screaming until the day Father kills him.

Despite it all, he doesn't want to die. He wants to be empty. He wants to be free.

“If I go with you… I won’t have to go back home?” His voice is so small. The darkness almost swallows it.

“No.” And then Sal’s hand is on his, cold like ice and paper soft. “No, never again. We’ll make sure that man never even _sees you_ again.”

Travis closes his eyes. For the first time in days, he relaxes. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Sally.”

“Of course. It’s what friends are for. And honestly…” A sound both like and unlike a laugh leaves Sal, low and sad. “I wouldn’t wish what you’ve been through on my worst enemy.”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through.” _And you should be glad,_ he doesn't say.

“Maybe I don't,” Sal murmurs cryptically. “But I know you’re hurting. Nobody deserves this, Travis.”

Travis can think of a few people that might - Dogma is at the top of that list - but still, he nods. If Sal wants to believe that, wants to believe Travis hasn't earned this, wants to believe _deserving_ has a place in reality, then fine. It’s always been cute how naive he is. How idealistic and bright.

Even in the pitch of the night-blackened bathroom, Sal is a beacon of light.

Who the Hell is Travis to shit on that? He opens his mouth to reply, to agree, but is interrupted by a startling knock on the door. They both jump, then again when the voice rings out through the wooden door.

“Sal! Sally Face?” Oh, God. It’s that metalhead that Sal hangs around. What was his name? Laramy? Larvae? “Are you dead in there, man?”

“Larry Face!” Ah. _Larry_. That’s the one. “Yeah, I’m dead. It’s cool, though, I have ghost powers now.”

“Cool. You earned ‘em, man.” The two share a laugh, Larry’s muffled through the door and Sal’s all too clear in the echoing bathroom. It makes Travis dizzy. “You need me in there or have you almost finished up? I think Todd found something.”

Sal turns to Travis with what Travis can tell is a too-big smile crinkling his eyes, just barely visible in the light of the GearBoy. “Larry’s kind of weird about bathrooms. Do we need him in here?”

“Um. No.”

Sal gives Travis a thumbs up, then shouts, “We’re good, Larry!”

“Uh… We?"

“Just go find Todd and tell him to meet behind the courts in, eh- about ten minutes?”

“Will do. Later, Sally Face. And friend of Sally Face, apparently.”

Another quick rap on the door in farewell and Larry is gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway outside the bathroom door.

“Are we good to go too?” Travis turns to the sound of Sal’s voice like a flower blooms in the sun. “Or do you want to stay a little longer?”

For Sal’s sake if not his own, he really considers the question. Does he need a moment more? Or does he want to get the fuck out of here already?

Well, there's his answer.

“Yeah, I’m okay. As long as it means I never have to step foot in a Phelps residence ever again, I’m- I’m more than okay.”

“I’m glad.” He sounds it. “You deserve to be okay.”

“Deserving doesn’t buy me jack, but thanks.” He forces himself to a stand, grunting as his knees protest. He feels so old for a teenager. His cold legs are suddenly freezing without the shirt to cover them.

"You okay?"

Travis helps Sal up. The other boy's cold hand in his makes his heart leap. “Yep. Let's- Let’s just finish up this ghost bullshit and go home, huh? I'm gonna need a shower after sitting on this nasty ass floor for so long."

“Heh… Yeah, good plan.”

The glowing GearBoy moves when Sal moves, lurching towards the door with the rhythm of his strides. For a boy so short, Sal's proficient at lumbering.

“How much do you want to tell the guys?” he asks against the creak of the opening door.

“Absolutely fucking nothing.”

“Another good plan… I’ll just tell them you’re a doppleganger.”

“A ghostly one? The undead spirit of Travis Phelps' long-lost twin?”

“Exactly.” The grin in his voice is loud. “You’re on fire tonight, Trav.”

Despite himself - despite everything - Travis laughs. It’s a quiet sound, almost hidden beneath Sal’s loud footsteps and the hall’s strange echo, but it’s a laugh - and an honest one at that. It’s not much, but it’s more than Travis has had in a long, long time.

And, if Sal is being honest, he may be getting even more soon. He may even be _free_.

If Sal is being honest, Travis Phelps will never have to worry about curfew agan.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading 💖


End file.
